


the many for the Few

by LostBerryQueen



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBerryQueen/pseuds/LostBerryQueen
Summary: Mrs. Coulter realized what was inside of the tin. Lyra realized what would happen if she fulfilled the prophecy. Lyra makes the same choice that her mother made to save her: the many must be sacrificed for the few.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 31
Kudos: 118





	1. The Voice of God

The tin can felt too light. Mrs. Coulter gave it a shake. There was a small noise as something hit against the inside, then a furious buzzing began and grew stronger, the can vibrating in Mrs. Coulter’s hand. Mrs. Coulter rose from the bed and turned her back on Lyra. She set the agitated can carefully on her desk. 

“Lyra, good relationships between mothers and daughters require trust, and that means we need to be honest with each other.” 

Lyra’s knuckles were white as she gripped the bedsheet, tears were in her eyes and she looked ready to spring from the bed. Pan peered out from under the blanket, cat-formed. His ears were pressed flat against his head and he hissed at Mrs. Coulter and let out a low meow which was somehow both pitiful and intimidating. 

Mrs. Coulter towered over Lyra, acutely aware of her power, the way a falling building must feel looking at an ant. She sat down on the bed carefully, as the golden monkey paced the room. 

“Lyra,” she said in her gentle motherly tone, a tone that could smother a wildfire. She took the girl’s small, sweaty hand. 

Lyra’s lip trembled and the tears finally burst forth. 

“Cry has much as you need to, darling.” 

Terror wracked Lyra’s body and she clung onto Pan, letting out wailing sobs of pure despair. She hadn’t wanted Mrs. Coulter to see any of this. She thought she could hold it back long enough. The spy-fly had been her last chance. The Gyptians would come, they would save the children, but they wouldn’t save her. Roger would tell them it was too late, that she had been taken, that she was gone. 

Mrs. Coulter watched the display with fascination. She felt her own body softening, and the golden monkey came to sit at her feet. He reached up a hand. Mrs. Coulter squeezed it briefly, then nudged him away with her foot. 

Eventually, Mrs. Coulter felt the need to calm her child. She reached a hand out to lightly stroke Lyra’s shoulder. Lyra recoiled from the touch and shot Mrs. Coulter a look of such hatred that Mrs. Coulter pulled away quickly, as if she had pushed the golden monkey’s paw into boiling water. 

Mrs. Coulter could feel her patience running thin. The golden monkey wanted to seize Pan and shake him, so she pressed her toes into his tail. She closed her eyes and the image of Lyra screaming from the chamber cut through her like the intercision blade was splitting her in half. If she lost Lyra she lost her soul. 

“Lyra, in order for me to be able to keep you and Roger safe, you must tell me where the alethiometer is.” 

Poor little Parslow was turning out to be the most valuable card in Mrs. Coulter’s possession. Sure enough, Lyra sniffed, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand and looking at her mother contemplatively. Pan, ermine-formed, gave Mrs. Coulter one last glance then slid back under the blankets reluctantly. 

Lyra sighed. “I lost it. I thought you’d be angry.” She kept her voice intentionally small. Underneath the blanket, Pan licked at her fingers dutifully, soothing her. Together, they could get through this, together, they could get through anything. 

“But you kept the spy-fly?” 

“It was a present from you, mother.” Lyra gave a little mocking smile. 

Lyra saw light and burned as the hand viciously slapped her across the face. The golden monkey sprang onto the bed and snarled at all three of them. 

Lyra was shocked but only for an instant. Her father had a temper after all, and she was used to him slapping her around on occasion. She spit in Mrs. Coulter’s face and flung herself from the bed, landing on all fours. She made to run for the door, but the golden monkey already had Pan’s face pressed into the mattress, body pinning him down, paws clasped around his throat. 

Lyra clawed at the carpet. “You can’t do this to me!” 

“Here again, Lyra? I thought I already taught you about disobedience.” 

The golden monkey dug his claws into Pan’s ear and Lyra screamed. 

“Please! Don’t! Please!” 

The cries cut through Mrs. Coulter uncomfortably and for a moment she felt unsteady. The golden monkey released Pan and stepped back, but Lyra stayed in her position on the floor, as Mrs. Coulter had expected. 

Mrs. Coulter bent her knees and reached down to run her hand over Lyra’s face, to smooth her messed hair. “Shhh, darling.” Lyra was shaking. Pan had become a moth and was flying in agitation beside her face. “So long as you do as you’re told, you’ll stay under your mother’s protection.” Of course she would never let anyone else harm Lyra regardless of her behavior, but it wouldn’t due to give Lyra the idea that her actions would not have consequences. Lyra was far more stubborn and wild than Mrs. Coulter could have anticipated, and wild things needed to be broken. 

“I-I’ll give you the alethiometer,” Lyra said, panting in fear. “If you promise to keep Roger safe.” The Gyptians would come, the Gyptians would have to come. Lyra just needed to find a way to escape Mrs. Coulter. 

“I have no intention of harming you or Roger,” Mrs. Coulter said in that singsong tone wrapped around a laugh, the tone Lyra was coming to understand meant her mother was lying. 

Lyra looked up at her mother helplessly. When Mrs. Coulter smiled like that, like she was doing now, all of her features became soft and inviting. And her voice—there was nothing more that Lyra wanted than to believe that voice, and she almost did. Its charming power was like a heavy yet painless blow to the head—making her see stars, disorienting her. 

Lyra sat up, carefully drawing her legs under her. Her movements were slow, in an effort to ward off another attack. “What do you need it for, anyway? What questions will you ask?” 

The golden monkey perched on the bed, staring down at her sternly. Pan instinctively moved behind Lyra’s head so that if the monkey decided to jump, he would have to go through Lyra to get to him. Pan didn’t think the golden monkey would break the great taboo to do this, but Lyra wasn’t so sure. 

“Lyra, darling. An alethiometer is not a toy. It is a highly valuable instrument, meant only to be used by those authorized to do so.” 

“I can read it,” Lyra said, hoping the satisfaction didn’t show on her face when she saw that the monkey perked up in interest. 

“I’ve asked you not to lie to me.” 

“I en’t lying,” Lyra said truthfully. “How do you think I figured out that you’re my mother?” A misleading question instead of an outrightly factually false statement. 

Mrs. Coulter’s face was slackening with uncertainty, her eyes piercing. 

“It wasn’t god who told me, it was the alethiometer.” 

Lyra dodged the blow this time, having anticipated it. She backed away from Mrs. Coulter slowly, pressing her legs against the side of the bed. If there was a struggle, it would be a soft place to roll across, at least. 

“Don’t let me hear you speak about the Authority in such a disrespectful way again. And do not speak about the Authority in such a way outside of my hearing either.” Mrs. Coulter’s eyes were blazing but Lyra could see that she was fighting to restrain herself. It took all of Lyra’s self-control not to say something that would provoke her. If she could just get outside the room, if she could just get to the fire alarm—in the chaos, perhaps, she could escape. 

Mrs. Coulter took a breath and her entire demeanor seemed to ripple and change. She moved towards Lyra and Lyra pressed her legs into the bed hard, trying to stop her knees from shaking. 

Mrs. Coulter placed her hand on Lyra’s chin in a cold mockery of a motherly gesture, and Lyra forced herself not to look away from those eyes. 

“It’s with my clothes. Under Lizzie Brooks.” Lyra hated how small her voice suddenly sounded. Fantasies she had imagined back in London were rising to the surface of her mind, even as she tried to push them down. Images of Mrs. Coulter falling in love with her Uncle Asriel—they would adopt her and explore the ice together, charting never before seen caverns, killing cliff-ghasts and escaping armoured bears. Those things her mind had created to fill her with hope and joy had turned cruel inside of her, like a favorite vase breaking and then turning invisible to ensure that the glass shards would be stepped on later. 

Mrs. Coulter stroked her cheek then let her go. She turned towards the door. 

“Can I come with you?” Lyra asked. Pan became a fluffy white cat and leaped into her arms. “I don’t want to be alone.” Lyra hated that when she spoke the words, she found them to be true. She wanted to believe that she only wanted to come with Mrs. Coulter so she could escape, so Mrs. Coulter wouldn’t lock her in the room. She reasoned that anyone would want the companionship of their mother after nearly losing their soul, but the thought wasn’t as comforting as it could have been. 

Mrs. Coulter softened. “I’ll send someone for them in the morning. You should rest, Lyra.” 

She pulled back the blankets and Lyra allowed herself to be guided into bed. Her body suddenly felt as heavy as though all of her muscles had turned to stone. A sob tore itself out of her as much as she tried to strangle it away, and so she clutched Pan (who was now in his artic fox form) tightly. 

Mrs. Coulter was stroking the back of her hair, and Lyra shuddered. She wanted to get away, but she also didn’t want it to stop, and she found herself comforted in spite of her efforts to resist her mother’s control. 

Mrs. Coulter hesitated a moment before sliding into the bed and wrapping her arms around Lyra tightly. Lyra tensed then found herself relaxing into the safety of the embrace. The golden monkey groomed Pan’s fur, gently and thoroughly. Without realizing it, Lyra stopped crying, and found herself drifting to sleep. 

Mother and daughter slept through the battle, and when they awoke, a third of the children at Bolvanger had escaped with the Gyptians. 

Lyra sat up in her mother’s bed to the sight of Mrs. Coulter sitting at her desk, a strikingly familiar golden object in her hands. Lyra ached at the sight of it, holding back tears. 

Mrs. Coulter looked at her with a warm smile, and Lyra felt comforted against her will. 

“Why don’t you show me how to read it, since you know so much about it.” 

Lyra sighed with relief when the alethiometer was placed in her hands. This was the one thing she could do well, and losing it would perhaps be the second or third worst thing on her list of horrible things she could lose—though that list was growing to include things she had never imagined were possible to lose before. 

“What are you asking?” Mrs. Coulter said softly as Lyra moved the dials eagerly. 

“About Roger,” Lyra was too excited to be quiet. “It says he’s with the Gyptians!” 

“He must have been one of the children who escaped!” Mrs. Coulter said, but she radiated cheerfulness. “I must say they put up a good fight, not too good of course. Dr. Cooper was finally competent for once and managed to hold them off.” 

Lyra frowned at the alethiometer as it answered her second question: how can I keep Roger safe? The alethiometer said that if she left Mrs. Coulter, Roger would die. 

“What are you asking it now?” 

“About Lord Asriel,” Lyra lied. “It says he’s taking a bath for the first time in a month.” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. “So you really can read the alethiometer? How extraordinary! All this time I was harboring a prodigy, but I shouldn’t be surprised.” Mrs. Coulter stroked Lyra’s face fondly. “You’ll have to teach me how to read it someday.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t allowed.” 

“Well, for most people, it isn’t. I just happen to work in a part of the magisterium that the Authority has allowed a little more intellectual exploration. Of course, for you it wouldn’t be allowed, but since you’re my daughter I think an exception can be made.” 

Lyra had never actually asked the alethiometer if Mrs. Coulter was really her mother, but she did so now. The answer was like a shot in the chest. She hadn’t quite prepared herself for the shock of the confirmation of a truth she had already been told. It was different when the alethiometer spoke, because words, verbal “truths” could all be twisted. But if the alethiometer said that Mrs. Coulter was her mother, then there was no way to escape it. 

“Let me ask about Dust,” Lyra said. 

Mrs. Coulter seemed suddenly uninterested, as if she had been indulging a child in a silly game. 

She brought over some tea and eggs and urged Lyra to eat. Lyra refused, too intent on the alethiometer. The alethiometer was telling her all sorts of fascinating things about Dust, but she couldn’t quite translate the ideas into words. It was like she was going on a ride into the stars, but when her feet touched back on the ground, she couldn’t figure out how to process what she had understood so clearly in the air. 

When the golden monkey started to tug the alethiometer out of Lyra’s hands (being careful not to touch her of course) Lyra finally relented and did her best to eat the food her mother provided. 

“I’m starting my journey back to London today,” Mrs. Coulter said. “Would you like to join me? You could always stay here of course. I’m sure what you’re learning about Dust could be useful to the researchers.” 

Lyra caught an edge of mocking in her voice. The thought of being left at Bolvanger made her shiver. Years of anxiety and abandonment rose to her chest, making her tense. She knew there were other children she needed to save, but the alethiometer had said that the Gyptian forces had been wounded badly. They had saved enough children to consider their mission a general success—or at least a compromise. They wouldn’t be back soon. 

The alethiometer said that if she escaped Mrs. Coulter and went to the Gyptians now, she would be a hero, but Roger would die. 

“Can I go with you?” Lyra’s voice was small again, weighed down by all the years Asriel had promised to be with her but had left—it was as though all of the buildings she had climbed over in Jordan College were now pressing down on her throat, cutting off the blood supply to Pan’s ermine tail. 

“Actually, Lyra, I think it would be better if you stayed here. Your knowledge about Dust could prove to be essential to the researchers. And when the intercision machine is finally safe, it would be wonderful if you could use it before Pan settles.” 

Her voice had that quality—as if a laugh were swimming through it, just contained. Lyra realized this was the first time she had heard Mrs. Coulter use her daemon’s name. 

Lyra couldn’t help but gawk at her. Pan jumped onto her shoulder and curled around her neck and Lyra closed her mouth, biting the inside of her lip. The alethiometer slid out of her hands and onto the blankets she had shared with her mother the night before. She could stay here, then she could escape, then she could...freeze to death in the snow? She could find Iorek Byrnison. Lord Asriel. She imagined his surprise, anger, that she had defied him, that she had made it to the north. But he would have to be proud of her as well. 

Pan shivered and became a mouse. If she didn’t escape in time, he could be cut from her. If only he could settle right now, right this instant. But Pan became a wasp, and stung her neck, he changed into a variety of insects in rapid succession before flopping onto her lap as a fish. He couldn’t breathe, Lyra suddenly wanted them both to drown. Then he became a leopard cub and started purring. 

“Don’t take Pan from me,” Lyra felt as if she were hearing someone else say this. 

“Well, you see, the closer you are to sin, Lyra, the more necessary intercision becomes. If you can keep away from Dust...” 

And Lyra understood. It was as if someone else had jumped inside of her body and was suddenly pushing the alethiometer away from her. 

“I don’t know anything about Dust,” Lyra said dumbly, fear stealing away her power. “I don’t know how to read the alethiometer either, it was just a silly story. I overheard you talking to one of the doctors this morning, I was only pretending to be asleep, see.” 

“Darling, I don’t like this habit you have of lying.” 

The golden monkey snapped the alethiometer shut and carried it to Mrs. Coulter with alarming speed. Lyra flinched automatically. 

Mrs. Coulter went into her closet and returned with Lyra’s furs, dumping them on the bed and wrinkling her nose at the smell. 

“Get changed, darling. We leave in an hour.” 

~~~

Lyra sat tense and alert in the seat of the zeppelin, all of her senses straining yet processing little. Mrs. Coulter began to talk to her, and Lyra felt soothed by the stories of the north, even if she couldn’t focus enough to catch their full meaning. It was as though the fragile identity that was beginning to form along her journey north had frozen over—a snowflake trapped inside the ice of an immobilized ocean. Pan kept shifting forms, unable to get comfortable. The golden monkey stared out the window, refusing to look at either of them. 


	2. Every Boundary

Lyra’s room was spotless, but it felt different. She didn’t immediately notice that some of the furniture had been replaced. She thought that she would be relieved to finally be alone in her own room and in her bed, but as soon as she lay down despair burned her insides. Pan flew around the room moth-formed. He wanted her to escape out the window, but Lyra was immobilized with emotion—or perhaps the lack of it. 

Lyra didn’t sleep for more than an hour the first few nights. Occasionally she would hear the golden monkey in the vents, and know that he was watching her. 

The days passed in a silence that was beginning to lose its tension. In the morning Mrs. Coulter would knock softly on her door. Lyra would get dressed then come out to let Mrs. Coulter style her hair. They would eat breakfast on the terrace, where Mrs. Coulter would comment on the food, what was in season, what wasn’t. How some foods looked much more fashionable than they tasted. Lyra practiced a noncommittal smile, but Pan would peer out from under the table to stare at Mrs. Coulter in fascination and fear, before darting back under and curling up on the safety of Lyra’s lap. 

Mrs. Coulter would then go into her study and lock the door, and Lyra would be left to wander the apartment, running her finger over expensive decorations before settling down in her room or on the couch with a book to read. Ever so often she would hear the monkey in the vents, keeping a sharp eye on her even as Mrs. Coulter feigned disinterest. 

For lunch Mrs. Coulter would come out to the living room and ask Lyra to summarize the book she had been reading. Lyra tried lying and inventing her own story the first time Mrs. Coulter asked, but Mrs. Coulter just raised an eyebrow, while the monkey gave an irritated caw, opening his mouth and revealing fangs. Mrs. Coulter then said what really happened in the book, and Lyra quickly claimed to have just forgotten. Lyra learned that Mrs. Coulter had an incredible memory, and if Lyra was going to lie to her, she would have to make sure she kept track of the lies. 

Dinner was the smallest meal of the day—Mrs. Coulter said you slept better if you ate less right before bed. 

Mrs. Coulter allowed Lyra a week to settle back into her London before she started taking her out to the theatre, to the opera, and to see her lady friends. At first Lyra felt numb and disoriented, being surrounded by so many wealthy, tense people concerned about their perfumes and clothes. Mrs. Coulter would explain the plays and the operas and the different techniques that the actors would use, and Lyra was calmed by her voice. Lyra discovered that what she had feared most initially—social time with Mrs. Coulter’s wealthy acquaintances—was actually the most engaging, and it gave her a rare opportunity to entertain a little power over Mrs. Coulter. 

They sat around a circular glass table in a tea shop where Lyra was allowed brandy-flavored chocolatl. 

“She’s so quiet and well-behaved,” said one of Mrs. Coulter’s acquaintances. 

Lyra gave her the innocent smile she’d been practicing. 

“Well, I’m so very lucky to have her,” Mrs. Coulter said in her delighted-fake-socializing voice. 

“You must be very grateful to Mrs. Coulter for taking you in.” 

“Oh, I am. You see, at the place I was at before, they didn’t treat orphans so nice like Mrs. Coulter does. They were all men, and they wanted me to learn all these confusing things. Matters any proper lady wouldn’t bother with. I was never very intelligent, not like Mrs. Coulter, so they’d beat me and starve me. Mrs. Coulter never had a daughter of her own, and when she heard about me her heart just ached. So she saved me. I’m forever grateful for her generous charity. Mrs. Coulter would never hurt me, not like they would.” Lyra could feel Mrs. Coulter’s tension as she spoke, and Pan watched her nearly crushing the golden monkey’s hand under the table, but the ladies appeared not to notice, so touched they seemed by Lyra’s story. 

Of course, Lyra would always pay later for her amusing tales. It wouldn’t be immediate, of course, but there would be some little thing Mrs. Coulter would find to be upset over, and Lyra would find herself on the floor with the golden monkey running his claws over Pan’s back. 

Lyra was picking up all sorts of information about the magisterium, that she had spent her years at Jordan blissfully unaware of. She told herself it was just a game, just a more complex form of lying to force her body into the mannerisms of a proper, Authority fearing young lady. To chop up the rhythms of her voice and flatten them into a humble, sterile dialect like freshly made, clean money. 

Lyra was finally starting to get more sleep, and that was when the nightmares began. She was back at Bolvanger, and Roger was laughing as Mrs. Coulter forced her into the intercision chamber. Lord Asriel was holding Pan with his bare hands, throwing him into the metal cage. Iorek Byrnison stood watching. “This is what happens, Lyra. This is what happens,” he said in his deep, wise voice. 

Lyra woke screaming, adrenaline racing through her veins. She opened her window, intent on escaping, and that was when an earsplitting alarm sounded. Lyra had opened her window during the day on occasion, and she had never noticed that Mrs. Coulter had installed an alarm and must have been setting it every time Lyra went to bed. 

The noise only served to heightened her fear, and she scrambled out the window too quickly, losing her balance on the other side. She clung to the window with all her strength as she screamed, feet sliding against wet stone. 

Mrs. Coulter was there and wrapping her arms around Lyra as the golden monkey dug his claws into Lyra’s arm and shoulder, helping Mrs. Coulter haul her back inside. 

Lyra clung onto Mrs. Coulter instinctively, as the golden monkey checked her over for injury. Mrs. Coulter was holding Lyra with enough uncertainty for Lyra to know that she was contemplating whether or not to hurt her. 

“I-I had a bad dream.” 

The alarm was still blaring and the cold air was hitting the tears on her face. The golden monkey stroked Pan gently on the head, jumped up to close the window, then left the room. A few moments later, the alarm stopped. 

“I was back...I was back there...” 

“Shhh, darling. Why don’t you sleep in my bed tonight, hmm?” 

Lyra’s clothes were dirty and wet from being pressed against the side of the building, so Mrs. Coulter helped her change into clean ones. 

Mrs. Coulter made two mugs of chocolatl, and smiled fondly at Lyra as she drank it, brushing hair back from her face. 

“You know chocolatl was always my favorite drink.” 

Lyra gave a small nod. Mrs. Coulter didn’t often want a verbal response from her. The less she talked, the shorter she kept her sentences, the happier Mrs. Coulter was with her. 

She often wondered how it was possible that Mrs. Coulter was her mother. It was definitely easier to believe the lies that were told about her—that she was an orphan taken in by an Authority-loving philanthropist. 

When they had finished the warm drinks, Mrs. Coulter turned out the lights and wrapped her arms tightly around Lyra. For the first time in Lyra’s life (that she could remember) Mrs. Coulter kissed her on the forehead. 

“I thought I had lost you again,” Mrs. Coulter said, stroking Lyra’s hair. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that I didn’t.” 

Lyra snuggled closer. Pan climbed up Lyra and pressed his ermine form into Mrs. Coulter’s neck. Both Lyra and her mother were surprised, but neither said anything. Babies often slept like this, their daemons not yet knowing the boundary between parent and child, or that any such boundary existed. 


	3. Confrontations

Lyra’s nightmares continued, and so she often found herself at Mrs. Coulter’s door, holding her breath before turning the handle. She would crawl into bed beside her mother and Mrs. Coulter would wrap her arms around her, whether she was awake or half-asleep. The golden monkey was almost always awake, and he’d groom Pan as Lyra fell asleep. 

Mrs. Coulter said nothing about this, but left her door unlocked. 

When the first snow fell, they were on the terrace eating breakfast. Two flakes fell between the orange juice and the milk. Mrs. Coulter smiled conspiratorially, and got out two gigantic blankets. She wrapped Lyra in one and herself in the other, and let them continue to eat until the snow had gathered enough to create a light frosting on the milk. 

Then she urged Lyra inside where they sat in front of the fireplace, in fresh blankets and with mugs of cinnamon-chocolatl. 

It was moments like this where Lyra could believe that she had never been north, that she had never been anything but the quiet face next to the roaring bear. 

“We won’t be able to eat breakfast on the terrace any longer,” Mrs. Coulter said. “It’s still my favorite time of year.” 

The snow made Lyra uneasy. As beautiful as it was, she would never be able to see snow without thinking of Bolvanger. She was glad to be by the fire. Nothing in Bolvanger was as warm as Mrs. Coulter’s flat near the fire with chocolatl. 

When Mrs. Coulter retired to her study (much later than usual) Lyra went out onto the terrace barefoot. The snow was still falling, the coldness burning her skin. She gathered up a snowball in her bare hands and threw it over the ledge. She laughed in delight as she saw that it actually hit someone. A man in a long black overcoat who cursed and looked up in confusion. Lyra ducked down out of sight. 

She gathered up more snow and brought it inside. Looking around she darted over to one of Mrs. Coulter’s art-piece decoration-things, and dumped it inside. She would have liked to have filled Mrs. Coulter’s purse with it, but her bravery only went so far. 

Lyra changed into her pajamas and snuggled down under her blankets with a book. 

“What are you going to do when she finds out?” 

Lyra was surprised at first. Pan hadn’t spoken to her in a long time. 

“I don’t know. I’ll see what happens.” 

Pan looked like he wanted to say something more, but there was nothing either of them could do now. So he snuggled up beside her, appreciating that she was still connected to him, that she hadn’t been cut away. 

Lyra heard the gasp followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor as if Mrs. Coulter had dropped her bag in surprise. 

“Quick, Pan, think of a lie!” She whispered. 

“I’ve never been the one any good at lies,” Pan shot back. 

Adrenaline raced through her but she was smiling. This was a game of sorts. 

Lyra heard the clicking of heels approaching her door, so she ran over to the vent and climbed inside. She wanted to see her mother’s face, read her expression, before she made another move. 

It was Lyra’s turn to gasp as Mrs. Coulter flung the door open in one motion and threw a snowball at Lyra’s pillow where her face had been moments before. 

Lyra scrambled up the vent, but the golden monkey opened it and followed after her, smashing snow into her face, then dragging Pan out of the vent by the tail. Lyra followed reluctantly. 

Mrs. Coulter looked somehow both amused and angry. “Lyra, if you’re going to play childish games, just know that I will win. Snow stays outside of the house, do you understand?” 

Lyra nodded, caught between laughter and tears. 

The golden monkey gave Pan’s tail one last tug then followed Mrs. Coulter back to her study. 

“Well that wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” Lyra said. 

“It was almost a bonding moment,” Pan said. He bent to lick his tail where the golden monkey had drawn blood. 

~~ 

Lyra continued to feel restless and bored. She played a few more pranks on Mrs. Coulter (replacing her toothpaste with cream, her lipstick with ketchup) but stopped when the golden monkey took Pan out onto the terrace, and held him out over the edge of the ledge by the tail, dangling so his face was staring down at the distance he could fall if the monkey let go, feet struggling against air. 

Pan didn’t speak to Lyra for a week after that. 

“You could have just changed into a bird,” Lyra kept telling him, though she had been terrified too. Pan was losing confidence in his ability to change, and the monkey’s grip had been too tight. 

Most horrifying of all, of course, had been Mrs. Coulter’s words: ‘if you don’t learn to control your sinful nature, you will fall into the abyss of bad decisions and shame.’ The golden monkey had given Pan a shake to emphasize the point, and Lyra had vomited into the snow. 

Mrs. Coulter then took them back inside as if nothing had happened, and made two mugs of chocolatl. Lyra’s tasted a bit off, and she fell asleep faster than ever that night, and didn’t wake up until noon the next day. 

When Pan finally did speak it was to say: “you need to get the alethiometer back. It’s the only thing that made us useful.” 

“We can’t be useful again, Pan. The fight is over. Roger’s safe, I’m...fine.” 

“We’re not fine, Lyra!” 

“She must keep it in her study, and I’m not going back in there. The golden monkey keeps too close of an eye on it.” 

“You’re letting her win,” Pan said. 

So Lyra stopped eating. At first Mrs. Coulter bought her lie, that she just wasn’t feeling well, might have the flu. But when Lyra fainted on her way to the bathroom, Mrs. Coulter realized that the child really hadn’t eaten anything at all for a significant period of time. 

Lyra found herself in bed with a damp washcloth placed on her forehead, her mother beside her, feeding her sips of some kind of life-sustaining tea. 

“Darling, you had me so worried.” 

“Mother?” 

“Yes?” Mrs. Coulter’s voice broke. 

Lyra never called Mrs. Coulter ‘mother’ unless she wanted something. She was uncomfortable with the phrase, and Mrs. Coulter was uncomfortable with it as well. It made them both feel painful emotions. 

“I want to write to Lord Asriel. He’s usually sent me a postcard by now, and I haven’t gotten anything.” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed and wiped tears from her eyes. “Of course, darling. We’ll write a letter to him tomorrow. I brought you some solid food. Do you think you could eat something?” 

Lyra nodded. 

Mrs. Coulter hand-fed Lyra the tiniest pieces of cheese and bread. 

“You know when you were a baby,” Mrs. Coulter paused and looked down. “I didn’t have you for long, but you were always difficult to feed. You were born underweight, and I was always afraid that you would...well that you would stop eating entirely.” 

Lyra almost felt guilty. But being pitiful was the only way to gain her mother’s kindness and mercy. Pan dug his claws into Lyra’s thigh in self-righteous defiance. He would not allow them to feel guilty. If Mrs. Coulter succeeded in making them feel guilty, that would mean she had won. Pan had not gone through Lyra’s starvation just so Mrs. Coulter could win again. 


	4. Pure Intentions

The time came for Mrs. Coulter to return to the north, and she was not surprised when Lyra reluctantly told her that she did not want to join her there. 

A breakthrough had occurred at Bolvanger: one of the children had volunteered for intercision in the place of his friend. Before the procedure he confessed to his sins, including letting his younger brother starve when they were short on food and he needed it for himself. He was more responsive than the other patients after treatment, and he could remember the procedure and what had happened directly before it. The doctors were convinced that it was his desire to redeem himself and his willingness to be saved that had made the difference. They were scrambling to set up scenarios where the children would feel heroic by offering themselves up as sacrifices. 

Mrs. Coulter was quite excited by the developments, but she wouldn’t be surprised if there was some other reason the boy had done so well—perhaps it was a lack of fear, or a lack of intelligence. There were so many variables to take into account, and Mrs. Coulter wanted to be there to oversee the process to make sure that everything was studied carefully. 

Finding a tutor for Lyra was a problem Mrs. Coulter puzzled over for a few weeks. She spoke with some of her acquaintances who were frequently in need of people to watch their children, and they were able to suggest authoritarian caregivers sure to put the fear of the Authority straight into Lyra’s bones. Mrs. Coulter considered them, but she felt that a purely strict tutor would only encourage rebellion. She needed someone who could entertain Lyra. In the end she decided on six different tutors, one for every week she was gone. That way, if Lyra was only with each one for a shorter period of time, it would be more difficult for her to figure out how to trick them. She could also see which caregivers worked best. She asked them to send her a report at the end of each week, and she included in her notes on Lyra, a chart for them to fill out, rating her on things like politeness—and number of attempted escapes. 

Unbeknownst to them, she also gave Lyra a rating chart for each caregiver. 

“Six different tutors?” 

“You’ll like it, it’ll be like being back at Jordan again.” She stroked Lyra’s face. 

“Can’t I just meet them all before you leave and decide which one I like best?” 

“No. Give them all a chance. If there’s one you like in particular you can have that one for the entire time next time—if you behave.” 

Mrs. Coulter also gave Lyra the name and address of someone she was supposed to contact immediately if anyone hurt her. 

The night before Mrs. Coulter left Lyra climbed into her bed, and Mrs. Coulter’s pajamas grew damp with her daughter’s tears. 

Mrs. Coulter held her and shushed her. “You’ll like the tutors, I promise.” 

“Don’t go.” 

“I’ll be back before you know it.” 

Ermine-formed Pan nudged Mrs. Coulter’s hand so she ran her finger between his ears lightly. The golden monkey stroked Lyra’s hair. 

Mrs. Coulter was glad to be heading north. Yes, she could pretend it didn’t feel like Lyra had reached into her stomach and tugged at her intestines when she begged her not to leave (was this what Asriel had seen every year or so for 12 years?), but even if she had to put on a show of being calm while leaving her daughter behind, the thought that she was safely in _her_ home learning new things and making the hairs turn gray on her new tutors—was quite wonderful. Her and her daughter were both headed towards great new discoveries and Mrs. Coulter’s mind felt as fresh and magnificent as the unbroken snow she watched move past underneath her from the zeppelin window. The golden monkey jumped onto her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 

In her bag Mrs. Coulter had the letter she had helped Lyra compose for Lord Asriel. Since Svalbard wasn’t exactly renowned for its postal system, she would be delivering it in person. The golden monkey fidgeted on her shoulder like he knew what she was thinking about. Even guarded by armoured bears Lord Asriel was a formidable adversary because he had no self-preservation. It was why the Authority couldn’t control him: he wasn’t afraid of death or even hell. 

~~ 

It was incredibly difficult to stay clean in certain parts of the north where even indoors you were at risk of frostbite if you didn’t keep your furs on. Lord Asriel often found himself in those sorts of places (such as the Svalbard jail) and because he didn’t care, it was Mrs. Coulter’s task to find a way to get him clean without accidentally killing him in the process. 

Mrs. Coulter had Lord Asriel sit by the large fire in the center of the cave while she washed his hair with hot water. 

“Your hair is like Lyra’s,” she mused. 

Lord Asriel turned abruptly, nearly catching his elbow on fire. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed and he regained his composure quickly, frowning deeply. 

“I brought a letter from her, you should write back.” 

“I haven’t the time.” 

Mrs. Coulter pulled out a strand of his hair expertly and he winced. 

“I have time, and I’ve been discovering a lot more than you lately.” 

Lord Asriel grabbed her face with both of his hands and kissed her deeply. A small moan rose to the back of Mrs. Coulter’s throat. For a moment she gave in, then she fended him off. 

“Be patient, I haven’t finished yet.” She stood up and poured the water over Asriel’s hair, washing the soap away. Lord Asriel closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and he almost looked peaceful. 

The golden monkey and Stelmaria were curled up on the other side of the fire. Stelmaria was grooming the golden monkey, who would have purred if he were capable of it. 

“When will you give me what I asked for?” 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. “It’s not safe yet...” 

Lord Asriel scoffed. “And how many have died in your care?” 

“That’s different. We didn’t set out to kill them. We set out to cleanse them. Their deaths were unfortunate—necessary sacrifices on the path to discovery.” 

“The harnessing of the energy requires death. One death, that is all.” 

“In order for an experiment to follow the Authority’s code of ethics the intentions must be pure even if the outcome is not. You know that they’ll die, so I cannot help you until the matter is more...uncertain.” 

“Of course the Authority would prefer carefully crafted lies to the truth.” 

“And you don’t?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Mrs. Coulter said, eyes glinting as she leaned forward to kiss him. 


	5. You are Silver, I am Gold

Lyra couldn’t quite comprehend why it hurt so much when Mrs. Coulter left. She curled up on her bed in the fetal position and sobbed like an angry infant while Pan changed forms around her in agitation. Finally, he became an ermine and started licking the tears off of her face as they fell, but when that didn’t work, he surprised her by becoming a small monkey with a silver face and golden fur, and combing his fingers through Lyra’s hair. This worked to calm her and Lyra took deep breaths as the strength of her tears lessened. 

Lyra knew enough about the magisterium by now to be fearful of each tutor at first, but none of them were as strict as she had imagined they would be, and by the end of each week she had played a prank on all of them. She imagined that they would write a letter to her mother about it, and she would come home early. This idea filled her with dread and excitement. 

When Mrs. Coulter did return, Lyra greeted her tentatively at first, but seeing she was wearing her large (genuine? Lyra thought perhaps) smile Lyra lunged forward and hugged her. 

Mrs. Coulter brought a postcard from Lord Asriel and Lyra inspected it carefully to make sure it was indeed her uncle’s—her father’s handwriting. It didn’t say much of course, it just wished her well, said he was quite busy in the north and that he hoped she was paying careful attention to her studies. Lyra's heart still leapt when she read it. It meant he was alive, and he knew where she was too—even if he hadn’t admitted it, and had written as though she were still at Jorden where he had left her. 

Mrs. Coulter gave her a whale tooth with a carving of two fighting panserbjorne and Lyra remembered that she had never told Mrs. Coulter she had actually met an armoured bear. She opened her mouth to tell her then closed it when she realized that Mrs. Coulter would just think that she was lying anyway. She felt a bit guilty, as if telling Mrs. Coulter about Iorek Byrnison would have somehow betrayed him. 

Mrs. Coulter brought her a bag of licorice flavored peppermint candy and a silver necklace in the shape of the magisterium emblem. Lyra suspected the necklace didn’t come from the north, but Mrs. Coulter was trying to give it that positive association so that Lyra would actually wear it. The thought of wearing any necklace at all was unfavorable—especially a magisterium one, but Lyra tried not to let this show as Mrs. Coulter clasped it around her neck. After all, neither the golden monkey nor Mrs. Coulter needed a necklace to be able to strangle her. 

Mrs. Coulter and Lyra sat by the fire with mugs of chocolatl. 

“It’s good to be somewhere warm,” Mrs. Coulter commented. “Now, tell me all about your studies.” 

“Oh, well,” Lyra looked down into her chocolatl. “About that—” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. “Don’t worry, your tutors told me all about the mischief you got up to while I was away. I’ll be sure to find more capable disciplinarians next time.” 

“I liked some of them,” Lyra said, a slight whine coming into her voice. “It was just—I thought you might come back, if...” Lyra couldn’t believe she had actually said that out loud, and both Pan and the golden monkey looked at her in surprise. 

“Well, I won’t punish you for what they were too incompetent to prevent, not to worry.” 

Lyra was almost certain that wasn’t true, but perhaps it would be for a little while. She decided to bask in the light of Mrs. Coulter’s agreeable mood while it lasted, and told Mrs. Coulter all that she had learned. Mrs. Coulter would interrupt every now and then to make a correction, but gently and kindly, and without making Lyra feel stupid. 

Mrs. Coulter washed Lyra’s hair that night and Lyra feel asleep in the warm bathwater to the feel of her mother’s gentle care. Lyra had been washing her own hair these past six weeks, and she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of getting it completely clean. Mrs. Coulter didn’t comment on this. 

When Lyra opened her eyes she was in her mother’s bed, curled up against her. Lyra wanted to fade back into the warmth of her womb, where the golden monkey’s claws could never reach her, and she could never leave. They slept like this for a week after Mrs. Coulter’s return, even though Lyra had no nightmares, then Mrs. Coulter started putting Lyra in her own bed after her bath. 

Lyra dreamed that the whale tooth came alive and started attacking her. She went to her mother’s room, but when she turned the handle, she found something more horrifying than any nightmare—the door was locked. 

The stab of rejection quickly translated itself into rage inside of Lyra. She climbed into the vents, and made her way through them towards her mother’s room. She could tell by her mother’s breathing that she was awake. She would have climbed down to confront her, if not for the golden monkey, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the door as though he were waiting for her. 

She paced her room in anger until a glint of light from outside her window gave her an idea. She opened her window—but no alarm sounded. Lyra was free to go. 

Lyra huddled under her blankets and hugged her knees to her chest. Pan flew around the room as a seagull, before finally landing on the bed as a white bear cub, doing his best to snarl at the offending window. 

Breakfast the next morning was tense. Lyra sniffed a couple of times and Mrs. Coulter asked if she was catching a cold. 

“Maybe,” Lyra said, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. 

“Lyra, don’t do that. Go to the bathroom and use a tissue.” 

Lyra wiped her nose with her napkin. 

“I’ve found a piano teacher for you,” Mrs. Coulter said as though this was something they had discussed before. 

“Don’t want to learn no piano,” Lyra mumbled. 

Lyra kept her eyes on her food and sniffed again, wiping her nose on her hand. She could feel rather than see Mrs. Coulter’s glare as the silence settled between them. Pan watched the golden monkey expectantly, ears perked up. The golden monkey was looking away from them, as if he were incredibly interested in something else. 

Mrs. Coulter got up and left them at the table, and Lyra couldn’t help but gasp. She locked the door of her study, and didn’t come out, even for lunch. 

When the servant—a gentle old man with osteoporosis—brought Lyra’s lunch into the living room, Lyra was so relieved by the company that she asked him to stay. 

He cast a nervous glance towards Mrs. Coulter’s study. 

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” Lyra said. “She never comes out at this hour. Her work is too important. Did you know she’s drilling holes on the moon? There’s a substance that they think might be able to cure diseases, if only they can go deep enough to find it. The trouble is, they can’t find an instrument powerful enough.” 

The servant couldn’t help but sit down across from Lyra (his bones were troubled after all, and Mrs. Coulter’s furniture was ever so soft) and listen to her lies for a quarter of an hour. 

“Don’t you have a place to be?” 

“Oh, hello, mother,” Lyra said with a smile. 

Mrs. Coulter ignored her. 

What little color was in the servant’s face drained away and he bowed three times in quick succession before scurrying away. 

Lyra looked at Mrs. Coulter expectantly. Mrs. Coulter fixed her with a cold, thoughtful stare before going back to her study. 


	6. Keep You

Lyra’s piano lessons were twice a week, and her piano teacher prescribed three hours of practice a day. Mrs. Coulter would lock all of Lyra’s books in her study and ignore her completely until Lyra had fulfilled this requirement. 

When Mrs. Coulter ignored her, it felt more vicious and painful than anything the golden monkey had done to Pan, so Lyra found herself at the piano each day, boiling with sullen rage. When she actually played something well enough, Mrs. Coulter would appear from nowhere to praise her, often just a simple “good” and the bubbles in Lyra’s mind would fade back into the pot. 

One day when Lyra was actually trying quite hard, but kept failing in the same place, Mrs. Coulter came over to her after Lyra banged on the piano keys in frustration. 

“Lyra,” She said in her soothing tone. “It’s not meant to be an instrument of torture.” 

“I can’t get it right!” 

Mrs. Coulter took Lyra’s hands, gathered them together and placed them in her own. “Shh, perhaps if you weren’t so angry, you’d have an easier time of it.” 

Lyra closed her eyes and took a breath. “I just don’t like it. I’m sorry, mother.” 

Mrs. Coulter let her hands go. “Well, play well enough at the party next month, and you need never play again.” 

“The party?!” Pan said in surprised betrayal. 

Mrs. Coulter smiled at her knowingly and walked away. 

Lyra played as loudly and as obnoxiously as she could for the rest of the afternoon, but she knew that Mrs. Coulter had already won. The opportunity to never have to play piano again was too wonderful to let slip away, and Lyra could play well enough if she focused and was in the right mood. Lyra suspected that Mrs. Coulter had planned the entire thing out this way from the beginning. She would be Mrs. Coulter’s perfect little charity project, on display for all to see and hear. 

The one good thing about playing piano at the party was that it meant that she didn’t have to wear an uncomfortably tight dress. Instead the material was smooth and loose, flowing down just above her ankles. 

Lyra experienced stage jitters for the first time, and Pan perched on her shoulder as a raven, hopping from foot to foot. When it was over Lyra wasn’t even sure how many mistakes she had made, but Mrs. Coulter was pleased with her, and that night Lyra fell asleep curled up on the couch in her mother’s arms, two empty mugs of chocolatl sitting on the coffee table. 

Mrs. Coulter kept her word, and Lyra didn’t see the piano teacher again. Occasionally she would glance over at the piano and miss it, but look away quickly if she thought Mrs. Coulter was observing her. 

A few days after the party Lyra had a dream that Iorek Byrnison was eating her alive. Lyra screamed and thrashed around, warring with her blankets. 

Mrs. Coulter burst into Lyra’s room, genuinely concerned that someone was attacking her daughter. When Mrs. Coulter saw that Lyra was asleep, the golden monkey stroked Pan’s head in an effort to wake them, but Lyra kicked him away. The golden monkey cawed in anger, but Mrs. Coulter pushed him away before he could attack. 

“Lyra, Lyra, wake up darling,” but of course this didn’t work, so Mrs. Coulter caught Lyra’s flailing limbs and held them down until Lyra’s eyes snapped open. Lyra struggled in fear and anger until she realized where she was and began to calm. Mrs. Coulter smiled at her and stroked her cheek. “You were dreaming.” 

The golden monkey jumped onto Mrs. Coulter’s shoulder to peer down at Lyra suspiciously. Mrs. Coulter resisted the temptation to push him off of her. 

“I-I was?” Tears were dripping down Lyra’s face and she looked a decade younger than her actual age. 

“Yes, darling.” Mrs. Coulter wiped the tears away. 

Mrs. Coulter made Lyra her special-recipe-chamomile tea, and sat beside her on the bed as Lyra took little tentative sips of it. 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter said, stroking her daughter’s hair away from her face. “Some nightmares from childhood are bound to follow you into adulthood, but you must not let them get the best of you.” 

The tea was starting to work and Mrs. Coulter’s words were a hazy buzz before her eyes. 

“I love you, Lyra, always remember that.” 

Lyra could never be sure that Mrs. Coulter had actually said those words. Perhaps the drug was just playing tricks on her. 

The next morning Mrs. Coulter didn’t knock on her door or style her hair. When Lyra came out for breakfast in her pajamas, hair messy and uncombed, Mrs. Coulter informed her over eggs and orange juice and bacon and toast with marmalade and milk to wash it all down—that she had found a boarding school for Lyra to attend. 

“But I—you can’t!” 

Pan was shaking on her lap and he nearly slid off. He dug his ermine claws into her thighs tightly. 

“Lyra, you’ll like it there. I promise.” 

“No, I won’t!” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed, but her voice was scratched with a hint of sadness. “You can’t stay here forever, darling. You’re growing up. As much as I’d like to keep you in my bed—” 

This phrase stung and Lyra looked away, tears glinting in her eyes. 

“There’s more of the world that you need to see,” Mrs. Coulter finished gently. 

Lyra stood up, accidentally bumping the table as she did so and sending the orange juice shattering against the ground. Her fists were balled tightly and Pan flew in circles as a moth above her head. “This is about the north,” Lyra said, looking away from her mother furiously. 

“Lyra—” 

Lyra ran to her room and slammed the door shut. She sat on the floor and grabbed one of her pillows, yanking and tugging at it with Pan’s help until she ripped it in half and scattered stuffing all over the floor. The golden monkey clambered through the vents, but Mrs. Coulter left her alone. 


	7. A Reminder

The boarding school was in Oxford, and as Mrs. Coulter had promised, Lyra liked it there. This didn’t of course, keep her from sneaking out to go visit Jordan College, or look for the  Gyptians to see if she could find Ma Costa, or Tony. There were still some  Gyptians in Oxford, but they were from a tribe that Lyra didn’t recognize, and if they had children, they were all out of sight. The absence of children running around was chilling, so Lyra avoided them.

After what Lyra had thought was a friendly visit with Dr. Carne, he had informed her school of her whereabouts and she had been collected. They punished her for sneaking out by making her sit in an empty room and write lines for hours. Mrs. Coulter had promised not to send her to a school where they would beat her and starve her, but Lyra sometimes wondered if that would have been better. At least the other children would have been more interesting to spend time with.

Lyra thought that the wealthy daughters of those who worked in the magisterium had to be some of the most boring people she had ever met. All of the fight had been smothered out of them—and Lyra had to wonder if she had become like this too. She did learn quite a few interesting things about those of her social class, however. It seemed that discipline by force of daemon was not so uncommon between mother and daughter in magisterium families. It was considered more sophisticated, invisible and ‘getting to the root of the sin.’ Beatings were viewed as being obscene and low class. Daemons could leave their mark as well, of course. Lyra’s roommate’s daemon had a scar underneath his eye from when her mother caught them sneaking out with a boy when she was eleven. Apparently, they had just been friends, but because it was a boy her mother had thought it was incredibly sinful. 

Lyra found herself glad to have Mrs. Coulter as a mother when she learned of these stories, and she was certain that this was a factor in Mrs. Coulter sending her here. 

Some of the children pitied and shunned her, and she heard whispers about “charity case” behind her back. Lyra found this more amusing than anything else, and she’d be sure to talk in a loud voice in graphic detail about a brutal beating she had received during her horrific early years as an orphan. They would shudder in fear and disgust and her friends would roll their eyes, aware by now of what she was up to. 

Lyra’s favorite thing (though she would never, ever admit this) were visits from Mrs. Coulter. She would bring her gifts (usually a box filled with  chocolatl bars that Lyra would share with the other children) and listen to Lyra’s stories about the latest school drama. 

Lyra’s grades were atrocious but most of the teachers couldn’t help but like her. Despite her difficulties with concentration, Lyra seemed brighter and livelier than the other children. Mrs. Coulter focused on the positive portions of the reports she had received from the teachers, and attempted to gently motivate Lyra in her studies. 

Mrs. Coulter told Lyra that if she got satisfactory grades in all of her classes by the end of spring term, she would spend the entire day with her on her birthday and they could do whatever she wished.

Lyra expertly spun stories about how horrible it was to be letting the generous Mrs. Coulter down—she was only a poor orphan, see, and so she couldn’t help it if she were stupid. She added such details as Mrs. Coulter sobbing that she had failed her life calling as a  philanthropist because she was unable to help Lyra, and saying it must be a punishment from the Authority for not being a better person. All of Lyra’s friends—and some who weren’t Lyra’s friends, let her cheat on the end of term exams, and Lyra’s teachers marveled at her miraculous improvement—surely a gift from the Authority himself!

Lyra spent the summer holiday at Mrs. Coulter’s flat. The whole place felt different to Lyra, brighter and cleaner somehow than she had remembered it. It took her a little while to adjust, to think of her room as her room again. 

Mrs. Coulter hosted parties, but she didn’t force Lyra to attend them anymore. Sometimes Lyra would want to and sometimes she wouldn’t. Mrs. Coulter would find a place for Lyra to be if she didn’t want to attend a party—usually she would have her go on an outing with a friend—though she gave her strict instructions on manners beforehand. If the other children were busy, she would hire someone to take Lyra to the theatre, or out shopping. 

Mrs. Coulter was frequently busy, and she’d often go on outings at night and leave Lyra with a tutor. It was summer so they wouldn’t make her do math or science, instead they would give her art lessons, or puzzles to solve.

When August arrived, Lyra secretly counted the days until her birthday. On the day Lyra had been waiting for, she got up early, dressed and sat on the couch. 

Mrs. Coulter entered the living room and Lyra was hit with the shadow of a mood she recognized instantly, as though it lived in her stomach and had just come alive. Lyra wished that she could run back to the blissfully innocent days before this one.

Mrs. Coulter sniffed and wiped at her eyes. She smiled at Lyra softly, but Lyra wasn’t comforted. She could feel what Mrs. Coulter was feeling, as intensely as she would if she were still physically connected to her. 

“You’re early,” Mrs. Coulter mused. “You always were.”

She sat down beside Lyra and touched her face, as though she were seeing it for the first time. Her sadness stabbed into Lyra’s stomach, as if her mother were forcing a blade into her. 

Mrs. Coulter wrapped her arms around Lyra and held her close. “When you were  born I thought you were dead. And then those screaming, angry sobs, I thought you were hurt beyond repair.”

“Mother?”

“Yes, Lyra.”

“Why does it hurt?”

Lyra didn’t have to explain, Mrs. Coulter understood. She took  Lyra’s hand and guided them to the breakfast table. 

“It’s the Authority,” she said. “Reminding us that we are human.”

The pain Lyra felt didn’t lessen, even as Mrs. Coulter walked with her through the botanical garden and told her stories about the mischief she and her brother would get into when they were in school. She didn’t go to the same school as her brother, but her brother’s school was close enough for him to sneak out and see her. He would get caught and none of the teachers would believe he had only been there to see his sister, so he would get the most horrible beatings for sinning. Apparently, the magisterium approved of beatings for wealthy young men, but daemon discipline was for wealthy young ladies. 

Mrs. Coulter spread out a blanket and they ate picnic-style in the grass. The food was all of Lyra’s favorites, and she did her best to eat it, but it was difficult with the pain in her stomach. She wished that this could have been any other day, and not her birthday, because then it would have been perfect. 

Lyra slept in her mother’s bed that night, and she woke every now and then to the feel of her mother crying. Lyra didn’t cry, but her mother’s tears dripped down her face. The pain lessened, as if the salt was blood. Lyra somehow knew that this was the last time that she would sleep in her mother’s bed. 


	8. Cleansed

The summer that Lyra turned fifteen, Pan settled as an ermine and Mrs. Coulter told her it was time for her to learn the art of dating. This meant she was instructed in etiquette and sent on arranged outings with the sons of Mrs. Coulter’s wealthy acquaintances. 

The young men were nervous at first, carefully adhering to the rules they had been taught. Lyra intentionally ignored all of the rules and told outrageous lies and made up stories, getting most of them to relax and laugh pretty quickly. Lyra made them promise to tell their mothers that she had behaved, but she was fairly certain that Mrs. Coulter was sending people to spy on her, because she was often in a bad mood. 

Lyra would often here things like: 

“Lyra, your posture!” 

“Lyra, that outfit is much too casual for this occasion!” 

“Grammar, Lyra. This is the proper way to say it.” 

“Try to phrase it as a question, not a command. I’ve noticed sometimes you...” 

“You tend to make this expression that really doesn’t suit you when...” 

It annoyed the hell out of Pan, who sometimes wished he could still change forms to express his frustration, but Lyra found it quite funny. 

Lyra began sitting satirically straight in her mother’s presence, and asking everything as a question. 

“Mother, do you think I like to read today?” 

“Mother, do you think I think Sarah should really attend the party?” 

“Mother, do you think I think I care if I’m a proper lady because you think I think—” 

The golden monkey lunged for Pan but he scurried under the one couch that was too low down for the golden monkey to crawl under. 

“You have to come out sometime,” the golden monkey said, shocking everyone in the room. He jumped up onto Mrs. Coulter’s shoulder and looked embarrassed. Mrs. Coulter took his hand and sat beside Lyra. 

Pan came out from under the couch, looking up at them curiously. He climbed into Lyra’s lap. 

“Lyra, darling,” Mrs. Coulter said, stroking her daughter’s face. “You really have to understand that I am only trying to help you. We don’t have it easy, us women, but if you listen to me I guarantee things will be _easier._ The more practice you have with social etiquette, the more naturally you’ll be able to slip into it. Now, since this seems to be so difficult for you, let’s make a rule that you have Wednesdays off. Every other day I want to see you trying your best, do you understand?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Good.” Mrs. Coulter stroked her face again, and under her mother’s attentive gaze Lyra suddenly felt childish. “Now, do I think you think you care if you become a proper lady because I think you think you can do just fine without a man? As a matter of fact I do think you think you can do just fine without a man, but I also think you should start thinking about the benefits that one would give you—whether or not they are necessary is not the point.” 

“I think she beat you at your own game,” Pan said. 

“Shut up, Pan!” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed and soon Lyra laughed as well. 

~~ 

Lyra was relieved when school started and she could get out from under Mrs. Coulter’s watchful eye. She convinced two of her most impressionable friends to skip class with her and go running around outside. They screamed like children, muddied their dresses and ripped their knees open. They also came across some boys from a neighboring school, who were playing cricket with a stolen paddle and an apple. Lyra asked to join them and they were hesitant at first until Lyra grabbed the paddle and the apple and hit it far over their heads. 

“Better not let the teachers catch you doing something so sinful,” one of the boys said as another went to go retrieve the apple. “Wouldn’t want them to decide you need to be Cleansed.” 

Another boy scrunched up his face and looked over her and Pan carefully. “Nah, she’s settled, she can’t be Cleansed.” 

That was how Lyra first heard the terrible news that was sweeping through schools and leaving a trail of fear behind. Intercision was a success. A preventative measure to reduce crime rates. If a child was going to become a criminal, all they needed was to be Cleansed, so sin couldn’t enter their lives. There were early signs that teachers and parents were instructed to look out for, and if they found them, one little operation was all that was needed to save them. 

Mrs. Coulter was hailed as a hero. Lyra was made to stand up at a school assembly while everyone clapped for her—Mrs. Coulter’s other wonderful charity project. 

The procedure only worked if the child’s daemon had not yet settled. Lyra thought about this fact all the time. She had learned that where Mrs. Coulter was concerned, there were almost no coincidences. If Pan had taken longer to settle, then intercision wouldn’t have been declared a success until after he had. 

Lyra found it hard to smile, hard to lie, hard to get up every morning. The weight of fear and guilt—she felt like she was carrying all of those daemon cages on her back. For years she had pressed the north to the back of her mind, for years she had pretended—what, exactly? That there was nothing she could have done? That Roger would have died. But what if the alethiometer _had_ been wrong? It often felt as though the alethiometer had never existed, as though it had just been something she had imagined, dreamed up to justify her every action. 

She often found herself hitting Pan, urging him to change forms, as if that could undo something, undo everything. 

When Lyra didn’t leave her room for a week and refused to talk to anyone, Mrs. Coulter was contacted. 

There was fear and sadness in Mrs. Coulter’s eyes as she entered Lyra’s room. 

“They told me you were unwell,” Mrs. Coulter stayed by the door. 

Lyra just stared, stared at her mother’s hands. The golden monkey was hiding behind Mrs. Coulter’s legs. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed deeply and walked forward to place a box of chocolatl bars on Lyra’s nightstand. “Those might make you feel better.” 

“Mrs. Coulter?” 

Lyra’s mother looked like she had been slapped in the face but she recovered quickly. “Yes, Lyra.” 

“It was wrong, and you know it was.” 

Mrs. Coulter was silent for a long time. “It’s a shame you feel that way, Lyra. The magisterium will celebrate this very sacred work for generations to come. My work. If you’re feeling better, there’s someone who wants to see you.” 

Mrs. Coulter placed the letter in Lyra’s hands and left. 


	9. Should Have Known

Lord Asriel’s sentence at Svalbard had ended. The incredibly renowned and successful Mrs. Coulter had married him, and so he was now under house arrest (officially, at least), living at her flat in London. 

When Lyra saw him again, she had to bite into her lip hard to keep from gasping. He looked like a balloon that had been deflated, tossed into the road and ran over by every kind of car that existed. 

He had once been a strong, commanding presence. Now he could barely look up from his lap to meet Lyra’s eyes. Stelmaria was missing an ear. 

“You look well, Lyra.” 

His voice was a comfort, because it was the only thing Lyra truly recognized. Though his body had been drained, it gave her hope that perhaps his mind had not. 

“You look terrible.” 

Lord Asriel laughed, the sound as deep and rich as ever. “Tell me you’ve been keeping up with your studies?” 

They were in one of the private study rooms at Lyra’s school. Mrs. Coulter had explained that after years of living in the darkness of the cave, bright light and loud noise disturbed him. She had warned Lyra that he would be different, but Lyra had felt that there was nothing she could have said to prepare her. 

“Mothe—Mrs. Coulter’s made sure of that.” 

Lyra couldn’t think of much to say. A few ideas for wonderfully spun lies came to her, but anything cheerful seemed like it might sting too much. After all, her father had spent the years in a cave while Lyra was—comparatively quite free. She wanted to ask him why he had lied to her, why he hadn’t told her he was her father, but she couldn’t bring herself to do this either. 

Lyra asked him to tell her about his research—and so he told her—in sentences that didn’t always make sense, about Dust, and the other worlds, and how if only Mrs. Coulter had brought him a child, he would have been able to cross between them, but Mrs. Coulter wouldn’t because he would have to kill the child to harness the energy. He said that then he would have found the Authority, the source of all Dust, and killed him. He sounded completely insane, and he was, but Lyra knew that her mother was too. It was just that her mother had won, so no one else but Lyra (and her father) could see who she really was. 

When Lyra left the room Mrs. Coulter was standing outside of the door. She took Lyra’s hand. “He’ll get better. You’ll see. Once he’s had proper care for a few years, he’ll be the Uncle Asriel you knew and loved as a child.” 

Lyra yanked her hand free. 

Lyra attended classes just enough to get passing grades (as Mrs. Coulter’s charity project, the teachers tended to look the other way, so as not to offend Mrs. Coulter with Lyra’s failure). She spent most of her time wandering through crowds, listening to snippets of conversation. Sometimes she would see a child, who looked as numb and hallow as she did—and she would just know—they had been Cleansed. She would glance at their daemon, and sure enough, they would have that distinctive quality, of being there but not there—you could see through them. 

It was on one of her walks that she spotted a familiar face in the crowd. She stopped dead. He was taller and older but she would recognize that smile anywhere. He was laughing and holding hands with a girl. Despite the fact that her mother would call what he was doing sinful, he looked completely innocent. Lyra saw that his daemon was a golden retriever, and she recognized with intense relief that Salcilia had settled. Lyra watched him until he disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t notice her. It was as though Lyra were living in a different dimension, and staring through it to see him. 

Someone bumped into Lyra and she nearly fell over. 

“Come on,” Pan gently whispered into her ear. “Just walk a little longer, then we can rest.” 

“Roger’s safe,” Lyra said, reaching up to clasp Pan. A tear slid down her cheek. She wanted to collapse into her bed and never wake up. 

~~ 

Lord Asriel and Mrs. Coulter’s marriage lasted two months, then Lord Asriel disappeared. No one pursued him. 

Lyra cursed herself for not seeing this coming. She had received a strange letter from him shortly before he disappeared. It was only half-coherent—in some places the handwriting was too messy to read, in others the sentences were legible but made no sense. She considered showing the letter to her mother. If anyone could read it, it was her. But she felt that that would be a betrayal too deep to commit—even against her father. 

She couldn’t help but feel angry with him. If he hadn’t abandoned her to go north...if he had told her the truth...if he had treated her kindly like a proper father should? Or maybe she was truly angry that he had fallen in love with Mrs. Coulter at all. Perhaps the real issue, the greatest sin he had committed was to create her from a mother who would never lose control, would never stop winning. 

~~ 

It was summertime and Lyra had turned eighteen two days ago. She and her mother were playing cards. 

“I’ve found you a husband,” Mrs. Coulter said. 

Lyra had been expecting to hear those damning words on her birthday. Perhaps her mother had thought it was a kindness not to spoil that day with them, or perhaps she was completely aware of how drawing it out kept Lyra tense and alert, and made the blow hit harder. 

Rocks were clogging Lyra’s throat. 

“He’s a nice man. A scholar, but stupid. Older, but gentle. I think you’ll agree he’s perfect for you.” 

Lyra wished she could say: ‘what about my education?’ but her grades had been so bad that St. Sophia’s College wouldn’t take her, and Mrs. Coulter could see no point in applying anywhere else. 

Malcolm Polstead was, by all accounts, a merciful choice in a husband. He was tall and wide and chubby and soft. He was the first authority-figure Lyra had who didn’t hit her, attack her daemon, or threaten to break her arm. He was like the fireplace in Mrs. Coulter’s apartment—Lyra could ignore him most of the time, he was warm, and sometimes she was forced to sit in front of him. He loved her, and Lyra did her best to pretend she loved him too. The sex didn’t bother her (though it wasn’t good), but what she hated the most was when he touched Pan. 

“How do I get him not to touch my daemon?” Lyra asked her mother over brandy-chocolatl one night. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. 

Lyra glared and Mrs. Coulter made an effort to stop laughing, but struggled to. The golden monkey bent to nuzzle noses with Pan—an affectionate apology. 

“Maybe if he thinks you love him, he won’t be so desperate to grasp onto your soul.” 

“But I’ve been trying to make him think I love him, it doesn’t work!” 

“I think if you’d ever been in love, it would’ve been easier for you to fake it.” 

“It’s not my fault I’ve never been in love,” Lyra said sullenly. 

“No, it’s not.” A hint of sadness crept into Mrs. Coulter’s voice. She sighed. “But he is treating you well, other than,” she stifled a laugh, “other than _that—_ ” 

“Yeah, I suppose so.” 

“Good, I’m glad.” 

Mrs. Coulter could have had her marry someone wealthy, powerful in the magisterium, but her work had been so successful that this was not necessary. Lyra did soon learn that her mother was telling all of her contacts that Lyra and Malcolm were madly in love, and so she had allowed Lyra to marry him instead of someone of higher social standing. Mrs. Coulter’s acquaintances would gush about how great of a mother she was, letting her daughter marry for _love._

Malcolm told her all about his childhood, and Lyra fed him lies about how kind Mrs. Coulter had always been to her. He seemed to believe them, and Lyra wondered if having nice parents always made a person gullible, unable to really see deep underneath the surface of the human-mask. 

“You're just jealous of him,” Pan told her. 

“Why would I be jealous of him?” Lyra said indignantly. 

“Well, he’s a scholar, he’s got nice parents, and he’s in love. Things you’ll never have.” 

“You don’t have to keep reminding me, Pan.” 

“You never listen to me anyway.” 

“You never say anything important!” 

Lyra smacked him and Pan skidded across the room. They both struggled away from each other, until it became too painful and Pan ran into her arms, and Lyra sat on the floor sobbing, hugging him. 

Telling Malcolm lies about Mrs. Coulter made it easier for Lyra to justify spending so much time at her mother’s flat, but Mrs. Coulter wouldn’t let her spend as much time there as Lyra wanted. She was remodeling Lyra’s room and turning it into a second study that she didn’t need, so if Lyra stayed the night there, she had to sleep in the guest room. It was an aggressively clear message, and Lyra hated her for it. It was supposed to make her feel like an adult, but instead it made her feel like a child, being abandoned and pushed out all over again. 

Lyra had been married for four months when she received a letter from her father, asking to meet at a café in Oxford. 

All of Asriel’s hair had turned gray, but he looked much better than the last time she had seen him. He smiled a small wise smile that filled Lyra with a strength she hadn’t felt in years. 

“It’s strange seeing all of the daemons,” he said. 

Lyra’s smile faltered. 

“You get used to it, you know, being the only one.” 

Lyra nodded. Though she had no idea what he was talking about she felt she understood him on a soul level. He was cast out, alone, and insane. Like her, just more visibly so. 

Pan approached Stelmaria tentatively, and she licked his head. 

“I have to travel with a circus, you know. It’s the only way to keep from being shot at. Stelmaria hates being in a cage, but let me tell you, the cages over there are nothing, _nothing_ compared to the cages here.” His voice was suddenly passionate and urgent, and he leaned towards Lyra. “I know you must wonder why I hid you from your mother, why I never let her find you. It was because I didn’t want you to become _this._ An Authority-fearing woman.” He laughed. “It was her fear of the Authority that caused her to betray me—us. I will always believe that. But, Lyra, listen to me. I’m so glad I found the door back and I want you to come with me. This _world!_ Oh, it’s paradise! They have an authority, of course, but it’s much easier to hide from, and it's losing its control. Your mother won’t come, of course, but if you go she’ll follow you. I know she will, she’s always followed you.” 

Lyra realized there were tears running down her cheeks and she wiped them away hastily. It was distressing to see her father this agitated, to see how a once brilliant mind had wasted away. Hatred for the world she lived in rose up in her chest. She couldn’t blame her father for wanting to escape it, even if it was with delusions. 

So Lyra followed her father to a greenhouse, where he gesticulated frantically at air. When Lyra kept her distance, he grabbed her roughly and shoved her. Lyra stumbled and fell onto her hands. When she looked up she was in another world entirely. 

Lord Asriel grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Now, now you see what I mean? You see that your father hasn’t gone crazy?” He looked at her sternly. 

“Yes,” Lyra said, although she was fairly certain that she herself may have simply just lost her mind. 

“Okay, meet me here at one AM and we’ll cross in the dark. That way Stelmaria won’t be seen. You must hide Pan in your clothes. You will do this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good girl.” Lord Asriel pulled Lyra into a hug. 

Lyra walked back to the café with her father. They parted, and Lyra returned to the greenhouse. She stared for a long time at the door. Taking a deep breath, she crossed over into the new world. 

It was dizzying, being here. She felt like all Mrs. Coulter had done to her should have prepared her for this. After all, she had never been on steady ground, but as Lyra walked across this new land, she felt as though every trauma she had ever experienced was hurling itself from the sky and hitting her. 

She found herself in a crowd. That was when she saw him. He was holding a woman’s hand, a woman with graying hair who was laughing, with an expression that made her look younger than him. He was Lyra’s age. He had curly hair, and when his brown eyes met hers, Lyra felt as though she had known him all of her life, or rather that, she _should_ have known him. 

Pan couldn’t help but crawl out of her coat to look at him. 

Will’s mother saw Lyra, and Pan, and she waved, dragging her son towards them. “I think that’s her,” she said to Will. 

“Excuse me,” said Elaine Parry. “Are you Lyra Belacqua?” 

“I-I, yes.” 

“Your father said you wouldn’t be here until nightfall. Is he alright? I noticed your daemon, that’s how I knew who you were. Your father did say to look out for a snow leopard or a golden monkey, but an ermine stands out enough.” 

“You know my father?” 

“Yes, we’re very grateful to him, he’s been protecting us from some other not so pleasant people from your world. I’m so glad you made it across. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. He does talk about you quite often.” 

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Lyra said a bit sheepishly. “I told him I was going to cross with him tonight, but I was just too curious, so...” 

“Well, not to worry. We won’t tell him. This is my son, Will.” 

Lyra met Will’s eyes and when she took his hand, she felt as though she were shaking her own hand. Will laughed, and Lyra couldn’t help but laugh as well. Pan stared at Will in amazement. 

“Shall we find a nice place to talk?” Elaine Parry asked. 

“Yes, I would like that,” Lyra said. 

Elaine enthusiastically explained the differences between her world and Lyra’s, as if she had done this a thousand times. Will and Lyra sat in silence, occasionally looking at each other and smiling as though they were sharing some kind of inside joke. Lyra had no idea what it was that was between them, it was not something she could put into words, but it was very much there. 

Lyra returned to her world with an ache in her heart. She wanted to see her mother, to say goodbye, to beg her to come with her. If she did, she knew her mother would find some way to stop her from leaving. Lord Asriel was right, her mother would follow her anywhere. 

Lyra attempted to write a letter to her mother, but it sounded too much like a suicide note, so she tore it up and threw it away. She wanted her mother to follow her to the other world, not into death. 

Lyra would have to lie. She wrote a letter to Malcolm asking him to tell her mother that Malcolm had received funding to go north, and Lyra was coming with him. At least that way, her mother wouldn’t think she was dead, she wouldn’t...but Lyra couldn’t even think about that possibility. Malcolm loved her. She knew that he would do it. 

For the rest of the day Lyra wandered around the shops in her world. She almost packed a bag, but there was nothing she wanted to take with her—except the silver necklace from her mother, and that was already around her neck. She supposed that was why her father had called her “an Authority fearing woman.” But symbols could mean whatever you wanted them to mean. Lyra had learned that a long time ago. And this symbol meant her mother. It meant that, wherever she went, Lyra would be under all of the protection that Mrs. Coulter could offer. Even if Mrs. Coulter couldn’t protect Lyra in the other world, the reminder of her desire to keep her safe was a comforting thought. 


	10. we are not Heroes and that's why we're Happy

Will juggled fire in the circus. He told Lyra he wasn’t afraid of being burned, but he was afraid of people. Lyra understood. She had learned to be afraid of heights, but she could still remember what it felt like not to be. Will’s mother suffered from the occasional bought of paranoia or delusions, but no one in the circus judged her for it. The circus travelers reminded Lyra of the Gyptians, but she felt even freer with them, because there was no water trapping her on a boat, they were free to travel anywhere on land, and occasionally on sea—they could travel on water, but it wasn’t a requirement. The air was open, and they followed it. 

Years ago, for that short period of time that Lord Asriel and Mrs. Coulter were married, Mrs. Coulter had taken Lord Boreal into her bed, and locked Asriel out. She explained to Asriel that he was too broken to fulfill his proper duties, so until he healed, Mrs. Coulter would need someone else’s assistance. Asriel had accepted this, but of course, listening to them all night, eventually the rage boiled inside of him until he was moved to action. He figured this was exactly what Marisa wanted—for him to get some of his old passion back. Lord Asriel had followed Lord Boreal, intent on killing him to regain Marisa’s respect. 

Lord Boreal had went to the greenhouse, and Lord Asriel had lifted a heavy broken metal pipe, crouching in the shadows he had come to love and prepared to deal out many blows. That was when Lord Boreal disappeared and Asriel found what he had been yearning for for over a decade. A new world. 

He had spied on Boreal, and when Boreal’s men broke into Will’s house, he had killed them, and helped Will and his mother escape. They had all joined the circus, and occasionally Elaine worried that they were still being followed, but Asriel always assured her he would protect her. 

The story of Asriel discovering the other world was often told around the campfire late at night, with roasted marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers. Chocolate was not as good as chocolatl, though Lyra couldn’t explain the difference. There were many variations on the Asriel story, some more child appropriate, some more graphic and heroic. Lyra knew that Asriel had told her the real story, and even if he hadn’t, she would have been able to fill in some of the details, because she had spent so much time lying and with liars in her formative years—that she had a talent for looking passed shards of bone to the truth. 

It didn’t take long for Lyra to figure out what kind of performer she wanted to be. Although she was now afraid of heights, she still had a talent for balance. Will’s bravery with the fire inspired her, and so, thinking of him, the amazing look of calm that always settled over his features when he was dealing with such dangerous elements, she would walk out across the tightrope, ready to fall. 

She missed her mother, which became an awful ache in her stomach. Will would hold her in the night as she cried, without asking any questions. Soon enough, she was telling him the truth, about the locked door, and the unlocked door, about Pan being forced to look down over great heights—about all the times her mother saved her life. She had never told anyone this before, and it shattered her. Will was gentle and precise, he simply collected the pieces, examined them, and put them back together. He was able to explain to her how she was made, and for the first time, Lyra began to understand it all. 

Seeing Will interacting with his own mother brightened her mind. It gave her hope that, unconditional acceptance really did exist, even if it was rare. 

~~ 

Unfortunately for Malcolm, he loved Lyra enough to lie to her mother for her, but he wasn’t a skilled enough liar for Mrs. Coulter to believe him. 

Mrs. Coulter had him put in prison for harming Lyra—she refused to say murdering. She had the police out searching for her daughter, but of course they didn’t find her. 

Eventually, Lord Asriel found the time to cross back over into the world he was born in. When he did, he brought photos of Lyra in the circus, tightrope walking. Lyra with her arm around Will while he held up a burning flame with his free hand. 

Mrs. Coulter was so upset that she ripped up the photos immediately and began sobbing. Lord Asriel was prepared, and had brought multiple copies. 

He wrapped his arms around her and she clung to him tightly, clawing at his back and scratching him viciously. The golden monkey dug his fingers deep into Stelmaria’s fur, pinching the skin underneath as hard as he could. Stelmaria purred and licked him soothingly. 

“Come with me, Marisa.” 

“You’ve never understood it,” Marisa said bitterly. “You complete and utter fool.” She seized the golden monkey’s hand so hard that he screeched. She loosened her grip and rubbed it gently. “You take my daughter away from me—again, and you turn her into this?? This low-class, performer risking her life for laughs! I had her safe, a nice husband, a comfortable life!” 

“She chose to come with me.” 

Marisa scoffed. “You always could brainwash anyone. But to do this to Lyra? My Lyra?” 

“This land is almost entirely free from the Authority. The same Authority that wouldn’t want us to be together—that would have your daughter lie about her identity to hide the shame of being a bastard—” 

Marisa let out a noise as if Asriel had stabbed her. 

Asriel softened, taking her face in his hands. “My darling Marisa, it was the Authority that made you feel shame over things you never should have felt shame over.” 

“The Authority is the only thing that gives my life meaning.” 

“You know that’s not true! Tell me your life has meaning as you sulk around in this beautiful prison, telling everyone your daughter is an orphan you rescued because it’s better than being a bastard—” 

Mrs. Coulter hit him hard across the face and the golden monkey leaped onto Stelmaria, grabbing her remaining ear. 

“Don’t make me rip the other one off,” Mrs. Coulter said softly. “Don’t let me hear you call her that word, ever again.” 

Lord Asriel’s face twisted in pain and his eyes began to water. Marisa knew she would have to kill him before he would apologize for anything. The monkey let Stelmaria go, and she turned away from him. 

Mrs. Coulter could deny that she hated this apartment, but she couldn’t deny that she hated not having Lyra around to take care of, or a project to work on. Her project was a success, and her daughter had grown up. 

There was the matter of her death to take care of. She wanted to be remembered forever in this miserable world that she had conquered, so of course it would need to appear tragic. She would have to think a while before she decided which death would suit a hero like herself. 

She turned back to Asriel curtly. “Meet me in our café in a month. I’ll be ready then.” 

In the end Mrs. Coulter doused her apartment in oil. She stood on the street dressed in a long black overcoat and men’s trousers, and watched the spy-fly as it traveled up to the home she had once created for her and Lyra. It was successful in knocking the carefully balanced candles over, for soon the apartment was held in the arms of flame. She watched from the street as it burned, and people from the apartments below her scurried out to escape her fire. 

She read the reports of the tragic incident and even attended her own funeral. It was quite touching really. 

~~ 

Lyra would never forget what it felt like to see Mrs. Coulter, walking towards her in Will’s world with her golden monkey at her feet. She was smiling and looked as young as when Lyra had first met her. Lyra felt like a kid again as she ran towards her and nearly knocked her over with the force of her hug. 

“I see you kept the necklace,” Mrs. Coulter said. 

Lyra nodded. She glanced over her shoulder, to where Will stood, watching them. “Mother, there’s someone I want you to meet.” 

Mrs. Coulter raised an eyebrow and swung the golden monkey up onto her shoulder. “I see you’ve fell in love. Lyra, I can’t tell you how proud I am of you.” 

She touched Lyra’s face and it was as if she was reaching back through all of those years, and apologizing for when she hadn’t been there. 

The wound in Lyra’s abdomen had a thick scab. She would always be an orphan, and a bastard, but she would also always have her mother’s love—which most certainly came with claws attached. 


End file.
